


Shadow Marks

by anr



Category: Law & Order: Special Victims Unit RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Request: contract

He's half-asleep in his trailer when filming ends for the day, stretched out on his sofa and drowsily contemplating the trip home, but he stirs when she walks in. He watches her shut his door and lean against the table edge opposite him. Her arms are crossed, hands in loose fists.

"Hey." His voice is sleepy, rough. He clears his throat. "You okay?"

She starts to shake her head; stops and shrugs instead. "Long day, you know?" She sounds tired.

"Yeah."

She pushes away from table, turning like she means to leave, then hesitates. "You wanna go rehearse for a bit before we leave?"

Sher's expecting him home for dinner tonight, Peter will be expecting the same of her, and their kids are no doubt waiting up. They have commitments. Responsibilities.

He nods.

"Sure."

  


* * *

  


The scene is a cakewalk, one they could do blindfolded. There's no drama for them this week, only for Belzer, so they pretend a chair is their perp du jour and act one take with him as the aggressor and one with her. It's familiar, here together on this set in the shadows and quiet tension, and the scene they're playing out only reinforces the déjà vu.

They hold to their marks after they've mastered their cues, his back against the window grille, hers against the mirror. In the distance he can hear the last few members of the crew packing up and heading home, but he has no desire to follow their lead. Not now.

"I'm thinking of saying no."

It's not a line from the script so he knows she's not Liv. He relaxes out of Elliot. "To the contract?"

She shrugs; looks just past his left shoulder.

He leans into her line of sight. "Me too."

She grimaces, breaking from her mark and walking towards the table. "I just --" He watches her place her palms flat on the table surface, fingers evenly spread. She lifts them up, flexes, then rests them down again. "I don't know if I want to do it anymore."

He nods. "I know."

"I think I want more, Chris," she says, "I want --"

Three steps to cross the room and stand beside her. When she meets his eyes, he gives her a lopsided smile. "Mish, I _know_." He reaches out to touch her hand, to cover her fingers with his own, and is relieved when she turns her hand over, gripping his. He shrugs. "I want too."

For a long moment they just stand there. Then, in a low voice, she says, "I'm not just talking about my career."

It's not often she can surprise him anymore, but that does. He almost takes a step back, almost pulls away. "You think _I_ was?"

"No," she says, but she shrugs as she says it and that shits him, it does, because she knows him, damnit, _she knows him_ , and if --

Leaning in, he kisses her. He kisses her, and she kisses him back, and they turn, stumbling a little against the table, and he does think about stopping, he does -- they're on _set_ , for fuck's sake; anyone could walk back in and see them -- but then her hands are on his waist, fingering his belt buckle, and he doesn't. Pulling her flush against him, he lets her feel what she's doing to him.

She smiles, damn her, and he can't help it, it's an involuntary reaction to smile back. The kiss breaks with his hands framing her face, fingers buried in wisps of her hair.

"Let's get out of here," she says, and his libido tortures him by making him think her voice sounds rougher than usual.

"I know a bar," he starts, and she snorts. He drops a hand to her waist and pinches her lightly. "Shut up, you know what I mean."

She grins. "I know."

  


* * *

  


He knows a lot of bars, they both do, but this one is low key and casual, sparsely populated with non-descript patrons. He's not a regular, has only been here a few times over the years, his solitary visits broken by months and years of absence, but he knows they'll be overlooked. Ignored.

"Do you believe in what if's?"

She sounds tired again, pressing her words into the crook of his neck. Her feet are tucked up underneath her and her head is resting on his shoulder. His arm is behind her, fingertips drawing absent patterns on her shoulder.

"Mmm." He wants to shrug but he doesn't want her to move now that they're both comfortable. "Sometimes, maybe."

"We're not going to do it, are we?"

She could mean anything, really, but somehow he doesn't think she's referring to them sleeping together tonight.

"No." He takes a drink of his scotch. "We're not."

  


* * *

  


They have a place, a studio walk-up a few blocks from the Studio. She'd leased it years ago, when she was new to the role and wanted a place to crash that wasn't on wheels, and he can't remember exactly when he started sharing the place with her, only that he did.

He calls home while she checks the windows and locks -- they don't come here nearly as often as they could -- and she does the same while he's stripping and remaking the bed. Sher doesn't ask why he's not coming home after all, just puts the kids on so they can say goodnight, and he loves her just a little bit more for it.

In bed, he lies on his side, Mish mirroring him. There are no curtains on the windows and coloured lights from the building signs across the street make patterns on the sheets. He rests his hand on her hip and watches his knuckles glow red.

"Wanna make out?" he whispers, raising an eyebrow.

She laughs softly.

  


* * *

  


They _do_ make out, the street sounds outside melting away and leaving just them and the sounds of their breathing, their lips and tongues and a tease of teeth on the corner of his mouth, her mouth. His hand stays on her hip, fingers flexing, while her hand cups his cheek and holds him close. He feels like he could kiss her like this for hours, and he feels like he _is_ kissing her like this for hours, and he feels he feels he feels...

Shifting closer, she drapes her left leg over his hip, and he reaches between them, taking his dick in hand and guiding himself into the wet warmth of her sex. She sighs against his mouth and his hand moves back to her hip.

"Let's pretend," she whispers, brushing her lips against his.

He rocks his hips forward gently. "What if," he says.

She arches into the slow rhythm he's setting; meeting it, matching it. "Just us."

"Divorces."

"Custody agreements."

"No press."

"No show."

"Just us," he echoes, his hand slipping off her hip and into the small of her back. He pulls her closer as he pushes in a little further, a little deeper.

She smiles and runs her fingers across the line of his jaw, rubbing at his stubble. Turning his head, he catches her and licks at her fingertips. Her leg settles higher around his waist, pressing them together.

"What if," she says, and comes.

He kisses her until he can't not.

  


* * *

  


In the morning, he knows, they'll go back.

They'll go back to the set, to their lives, to their families and, yes, to their contracts and the show, and he knows it's the status quo, he knows it's not a _what if_ , not like this, but it's them and it's the them they fell in love with and it's the them they're not ready to stop falling for and if he knows anything, anything at all, he knows this: they never will.

Her hand tightens on his hip.

Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to her forehead, and smiles anyway.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/429099.html>


End file.
